Page 57 of You Had Me at Chateau
Caleb looks at me, tilting his head, his expression suddenly more curious than ever.
‘Okay, so what do you want to be writing?’ he asks.
‘Funny murder mysteries,’ I tell him. ‘Basically, I want to write what you write, just with a bit more of a romantic comedy vibe. But my editor won’t let me switch genres because my romcoms did so well.’
And apparently only celebrities get to write fun, trending books – or pretend to at least.
Caleb nods thoughtfully.
‘That’s tough,’ he says. ‘It’s no fun when you’re not feeling it. Have you talked to her about it?’
‘I have,’ I reply, frustration creeping into my voice. ‘But she’s not interested. Sex was all she really had to offer me.’
Caleb laughs at my choice of words as he leans back in his chair. He rubs his chin thoughtfully for a second or two.
‘You know, if you’re really not happy doing what you’re doing, or what she’s asking you to do, then you shouldn’t do it,’ he says.
I laugh – oh, to be a rich man in this world – shaking my head.
‘I can’t just breach my contract,’ I tell him. ‘As much as I would love to right now.’
‘Who said anything about you breaching your contract?’ he says with a mischievous glint in his eye that kind of excites me. ‘Contracts work both ways – and yours probably favours your publisher anyway. You don’t need to break it. You need your publisher to break it.’
I look at him, intrigued. He’s definitely right about my contract favouring my publisher, and I wonder if his is the same because he’s a big name. To be honest, it probably is. With these big publishing houses, I very much get the sense that the house always wins.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Write them a book so bad that your editor thinks you’ve lost your touch,’ Caleb explains. ‘Make it so unbelievably terrible that she couldn’t possibly publish it, or want you to write another one like it. She’ll either drop you or let you switch genres. Either way, you’re free to do what you want.’
I’m laughing but the more I think about his idea, the bigger the smile on my face grows.
‘That’s… actually brilliant,’ I tell him. ‘Manipulative, kind of terrifying but, yeah, brilliant. But how easy is it to write a bad book on purpose?’
Caleb grins.
‘It’s probably easier than you think,’ he replies. ‘And I can help you.’
I can’t help but laugh. Now that I can probably trust him to do, ghostwriter or not.
‘You must know your genre inside and out,’ he points out. ‘So you’ll know what not to do, what doesn’t work, the things that your editor hates – just do all of that stuff.’
‘And what about the spicy scenes, do I just not bother?’ I say.
‘I guess you could leave it out but, I suppose, if you want her to believe that you’ve really tried, just keep doing what you’re doing – which doesn’t sound good – and throw those in,’ he says.
‘I could put my dong back in,’ I say excitedly, not realising how my choice of words sounds, as usual.
Caleb laughs.
‘Yeah, exactly, put your dong back in,’ he says with a snigger.
Oh, and right on cue, our pizza arrives. However, in a twist on the usual, it’s Caleb who the server overhears saying something dodgy, not me. Usually in situations like this I curl up and die but Caleb just owns it.
‘Ah, cheers, buddy,’ he says. ‘These look great.’
He’s not wrong. Both pizzas look absolutely incredible, with just the right balance of toppings, cheese with the perfect level ofpull, and basil that smells as fresh as it did when it was still on the plant.
‘Dig in,’ he says. ‘Pizza first, book sabotage later.’
